My desk, pen and paper
scratch an itch in my brain.
Horney muses initiate unexpected
passions in my head,
orgasmic, semantic flow,
seminal impregnation
followed, by the labored birth of an idea,
pure content, not yet formed,
a yell not yet articulated,
a jangle of dissonant cords, not yet a melody,
a jumble of mumbles and maybes.
We wrestle.
Well wrought in the amorous afterglow,
the fetal urge matures.
At last,
a birth,
a poem.
Poems by Ken 